indeed. But what ultimately happened to Andrew is a bit murkier than that.” She leaned in toward me and lowered her voice. “Around the time of his fiftieth birthday, he walked into the woods and was never seen again. Some say he still roams through the forest to this day, playing his beloved bagpipe, keeping the Windigo at bay. You can hear the music of the pipes buoyed by the wind on the deepest, darkest nights of the year.”
I shivered but was delighted all the same.
That,
I thought,
is how a master of the craft spins a ghost story.
“And now, my dear, I’m going to make my way up to my rooms,” Mrs. Sinclair said, pushing herself up from the sofa. “We usually have cocktails before dinner, but I think we’ll skip it tonight if you don’t mind. I’m a bit tired.”
“Not at all,” I said, rising with her. “I enjoyed the story.”
She put a hand on my cheek. “I knew you would, darling. One can’t possibly be a part of Havenwood without knowing its founder.”
She made her way upstairs, and I settled back onto the sofa in front of the fire. I gazed up at Andrew McCullough—the very sound of his name sizzled through me—and wondered what had really happened to him. Windigo indeed.
“Miss Julia?” I was so lost in thought that the sound of my own name made me jump.
“Oh!” I said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
She smiled. “I’m just letting you know that Mrs. Sinclair will be dining in her suite this evening,” she said. “Might you like your dinner upstairs as well?”
Dinner? I had no idea it was so late. I glanced out the window and the fading glow of twilight told me I had been sitting there longer than I thought.
“Sure,” I said, pushing myself up. “That’ll be fine.”
“Very good,” she said, turning to go. “I’ll have one of the girls bring it up at six thirty, along with a bottle of wine and a few books for you to read. The evenings can get a bit long at Havenwood if we don’t have a formal dinner.”
“Thank you, Marion.” I smiled at her, pleased that I remembered her name.
After finishing the dinner of roast beef, vegetables, and crusty bread, I poured a glass of wine and tried to open one of the books Marion had sent up. But I found that my imagination swirling around everything that had happened to me that day was much more entertaining. I closed the book and set it in my lap, and spent the rest of the evening looking out my window into the dark woods, strangely lit by the moon and stars on the new-fallen snow, wondering about poor Andrew McCullough out there, somewhere. I squinted into the falling darkness, hoping a monster didn’t lurk just out of sight.
As I was turning off my bedside lamp, I could’ve sworn I heard the strains of bagpipe music in the distance. But I knew it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, and certainly not an ancient, immortal Scotsman patrolling the grounds.
A small, faraway voice awakened me in the middle of the night.
“
Sing a song of sixpence / A pocket full of rye…
” And then it dissipated into the air, as though it hadn’t been there at all.
I sat up and flipped on my bedside lamp, looking around the room, my heart pounding hard and fast in my chest. It was the same singsongy voice I had heard earlier. I slipped out of my bed and peeked underneath it. Nothing was there. I turned on the overhead light and approached the closet door, throwing it open—nothing but my clothes, hanging in neat rows. The bathroom was empty as well. This was silly, I told myself. I had probably just dreamed it. Trying to calm myself, I poured a glass of water, but my hands were shaking terribly as I lifted it to my lips.
I turned off the light and slipped back down under the covers, but now I was fully awake, a heightened sense of terror overtaking me. I couldn’t explain it—I knew it was probably just a dream—but I lay there feeling more frightened by this tiny voice than I ever had been of anything. I pulled the
I shivered but was delighted all the same.
That,
I thought,
is how a master of the craft spins a ghost story.
“And now, my dear, I’m going to make my way up to my rooms,” Mrs. Sinclair said, pushing herself up from the sofa. “We usually have cocktails before dinner, but I think we’ll skip it tonight if you don’t mind. I’m a bit tired.”
“Not at all,” I said, rising with her. “I enjoyed the story.”
She put a hand on my cheek. “I knew you would, darling. One can’t possibly be a part of Havenwood without knowing its founder.”
She made her way upstairs, and I settled back onto the sofa in front of the fire. I gazed up at Andrew McCullough—the very sound of his name sizzled through me—and wondered what had really happened to him. Windigo indeed.
“Miss Julia?” I was so lost in thought that the sound of my own name made me jump.
“Oh!” I said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
She smiled. “I’m just letting you know that Mrs. Sinclair will be dining in her suite this evening,” she said. “Might you like your dinner upstairs as well?”
Dinner? I had no idea it was so late. I glanced out the window and the fading glow of twilight told me I had been sitting there longer than I thought.
“Sure,” I said, pushing myself up. “That’ll be fine.”
“Very good,” she said, turning to go. “I’ll have one of the girls bring it up at six thirty, along with a bottle of wine and a few books for you to read. The evenings can get a bit long at Havenwood if we don’t have a formal dinner.”
“Thank you, Marion.” I smiled at her, pleased that I remembered her name.
After finishing the dinner of roast beef, vegetables, and crusty bread, I poured a glass of wine and tried to open one of the books Marion had sent up. But I found that my imagination swirling around everything that had happened to me that day was much more entertaining. I closed the book and set it in my lap, and spent the rest of the evening looking out my window into the dark woods, strangely lit by the moon and stars on the new-fallen snow, wondering about poor Andrew McCullough out there, somewhere. I squinted into the falling darkness, hoping a monster didn’t lurk just out of sight.
As I was turning off my bedside lamp, I could’ve sworn I heard the strains of bagpipe music in the distance. But I knew it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, and certainly not an ancient, immortal Scotsman patrolling the grounds.
A small, faraway voice awakened me in the middle of the night.
“
Sing a song of sixpence / A pocket full of rye…
” And then it dissipated into the air, as though it hadn’t been there at all.
I sat up and flipped on my bedside lamp, looking around the room, my heart pounding hard and fast in my chest. It was the same singsongy voice I had heard earlier. I slipped out of my bed and peeked underneath it. Nothing was there. I turned on the overhead light and approached the closet door, throwing it open—nothing but my clothes, hanging in neat rows. The bathroom was empty as well. This was silly, I told myself. I had probably just dreamed it. Trying to calm myself, I poured a glass of water, but my hands were shaking terribly as I lifted it to my lips.
I turned off the light and slipped back down under the covers, but now I was fully awake, a heightened sense of terror overtaking me. I couldn’t explain it—I knew it was probably just a dream—but I lay there feeling more frightened by this tiny voice than I ever had been of anything. I pulled the
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